I stood a mere 4 feet tall. Awaiting the school bus, the kidnapper of my time, that frightful first day of 3rd grade. Starring. Dragging my foot slowly up and down the door. Pausing the moment of the last of my freedom…
Until he approached me.
His hands, thick and scarred, tell a story of battles fought with flames, of heat that licked too close and smoke that swallowed whole. The skin, rough like bark, cracked and calloused, bears the ghosts of infernos past—blisters healed but never forgotten, fingerprints smudged by fire’s cruel kiss. He lifts them before my face…. as my eyes grow wide…confused on his moves….. “These,” he murmurs, voice lined with exhaustion and love, “these are hands that have carried axes and broken through walls, hands that have bled and blistered so others could breathe.” His fingers twitch, flexing like a memory of pain……before he cupped my soft cheek…and reached down to grab my small delicate hand….
“You—your hands—are meant for something else. For holding, for creating, for mothering one day …… but only if you use what’s in here…” he taps my temple oh, so gently
“This is why school is important”….he whispers….”This is why today is a big day…another day towards using your brain instead of your hands to make a living. Remember these scars….remember this rough hand….and promise me, you’ll save yours.”
I left that morning not realizing that this snapshot would be one for the most fondest memories of my late father.
School felt different that day….and every day since.